


On the Job: Part 1 - Relieving Tension

by Blondie54x



Series: On the Job [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a tedious surveillance, Illya gives Napoleon a little relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Job: Part 1 - Relieving Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of a 2 part story.

_Paris, April 1964_

Napoleon stood and winced as he tried to work out the kinks in his back and neck. Stretching his limbs was a luxury he could ill afford, but he allowed himself just a few seconds to indulge his aching body before returning to his task. He sat, readjusting the binoculars that were perched on top of a tripod and peeking out through a broken slat in the blind. Reluctantly, he returned to his surveillance of the building across the street, keeping watch for the Thrush villain, Victor Marton.

Stake out - the words that all field agents dreaded, but knew to be a necessary part of their job, a job that was full of extremes. One moment you could be fighting for your life, or chasing the bad guys half way across the country and the next – you were sitting on your numb ass for hours on end, staring through the glassy lens of a pair of binoculars and praying for some action.

He spared a second to glance at his watch, not daring to allow himself longer. As a junior agent, he’d once let himself be distracted by a pretty blond passing by and missed his quarry leaving the building. His fellow agents never let him live it down, and Waverly had practically singed his ears with his rebuke. No, he would never make that mistake ever again. Not that it was likely, anymore. The only blond that distracted him these days was his partner.

Speaking of which, where was Illya? Napoleon sighed with heartfelt yearning, hoping his partner would get here soon. He needed the distraction. And sustenance. Illya had slipped out to pick up a couple of sandwiches. Napoleon’s stomach growled at the reminder and once again he mentally hurried his partner along.

Right on cue, the door clicked open behind him and without taking his eyes from the binoculars, Napoleon growled, “Where have you been, Kuryakin?”

Illya grinned. Napoleon didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. They had a keen sense of each other, an intuition that had been heightened by their intimate relationship over the past few months. “Queuing,” Illya replied simply, knowing a further explanation was unnecessary. In his homeland, queuing was a part of everyday life.

“Well, better late than never,” Napoleon said. “It’s nearly your turn to sit and stare through this thing.”

“Not for another twenty minutes, it’s not. At least allow me to remove my jacket first.”

Napoleon kept his eyes on the building across the street. “Did you get what I asked for?”

“Tuna on rye.”

Napoleon’s fingers tapped an impatient tune on the windowsill. “I asked for roast beef on pumpernickel.”

“Well, they had neither, so I got you the next best thing.”

Napoleon didn’t even bother to reply to that statement. If he asked, he would be sure to receive some convoluted explanation as to why a fish was the nearest to red meat and why rye bread was the best alternative to pumpernickel, and he was too hungry to argue.

He listened to his partner fussing behind him, heard his jacket being removed, the rattle of paper being unwrapped and then the edge of a sandwich was pressed against his lips. Napoleon opened his mouth and took a grateful bite, swallowing it down. He had to admit, it tasted good, but then he was so hungry, his partner’s socks would taste good between two slices of bread. A coffee cup was pressed into his hand and Napoleon raised it to his lips and washed down the sandwich. Without taking his attention from the eye-piece, he placed the cup unerringly on the windowsill. Imperiously, he waved his hand around in the air and the remainder of the sandwich was placed in it. Napoleon took another bite, and around a mouthful of sandwich, asked, “If you’re not doing anything for the next twenty minutes, how about a neck massage?”

“I’d love one,” Illya teased.

“Funny guy.” Napoleon’s free hand pointed at his neck. “Make yourself useful,” he decreed, while he continued to eat.

“Yes, your Lordship.” Illya was happy to be able to get his hands on his partner. They’d been here for six hours now, and both had exhausted their usual topics of conversation, trying to keep their minds on the job and their hands off each other. The problem was, touching Napoleon was addictive and Illya was sure he couldn’t stop, once he started. Ah, well….

He reached around and pulled off the tie that hung loose around Napoleon’s neck and undid a further two buttons, carefully easing the collar down to expose bare flesh.

Napoleon heard Illya unscrewing a lid on something, then heard his partner’s hands rubbing briskly together. And then… _heaven!_ Warm, oily hands smoothed along the bare flesh on his neck and shoulders, sending a shiver down Napoleon’s spine. Napoleon’s eyes closed in ecstasy, before duty forced him to snap them open again. He tried to concentrate on his surveillance - a difficult task with his Illya’s hands on him, warm and caressing, sliding smoothly over his tense muscles.

Napoleon noticed a faint, perfumed smell in the air. “What’s that on your hands?” Napoleon asked.

“Baby oil.”

Napoleon turned, giving his partner a curious look before returning to his station.

“Baby oil is a very useful product,” Illya said, defensively. “Besides keeping the skin supple, it’s also very combustible. I once destroyed an entire building with just a bottle of baby oil and a book of matches.” Napoleon gave him another brief and worried look. “Intentionally, of course,” Illya added. “Set a flame to this stuff and… _whoof_!”

“That’s hardly reassuring, since you’re spreading half the bottle over me.”

Illya smiled. “Be glad I don’t smoke.”

Napoleon reached up and patted his hand. “Oh, you smoke, Illyusha, you smoke,” Napoleon purred.

Illya felt the heat rise in his face and kneaded the muscles under his fingers harder.

“Ouch!”

“Too hard?” Illya asked.

“Nope. Keep going, I can take it. Argh…”

Illya’s hands ceased their motion. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stop?”

“Not if you value your life.”

Illya did value his life, and that of his partner’s. He smiled, pleased to be able to bring this small pleasure to Napoleon. His hands continued their task, applying just the right amount of pressure in just the right places, circling thumbs easing away the strain and tension of sitting too rigidly in one position for far too long.

Napoleon was tense, the knots taking longer than usual to dispel. Surveillance was hard on the body as well as the nerves. They both needed a distraction, needed some form of relief – and Illya knew just the thing to relax him.

Sex. It had half been on his mind, anyway – hadn’t that been one of the reasons he’d bought the baby oil? Their relationship was still fairly new and at the stage when neither man could quite get enough of the other. But they’d had so little time, lately, with one affair following directly on from another. This was the first time they had been alone together for almost two weeks. Illya couldn’t pass up such a golden opportunity, despite the risks.

And he’d decided that Napoleon was worth taking risks for. Illya was a careful man - it was something he did only when he knew it was safe to do so, and never when it would put themselves or the mission in jeopardy. Napoleon was busy watching the street and Illya was aware of their immediate surroundings. The hazards were minimal, and nothing they could not overcome.

Illya finished the massage and turned away, wiping his hands on an old towel by the sink, before returning to Napoleon’s side.

“Stand up,” Illya ordered.

Napoleon cast him a puzzled glance but obeyed, watching as Illya took hold of the tripod, and lifted it onto the chair just vacated by his partner.

“What are you doing?” Napoleon asked.

“Making you more comfortable,” was the simple reply.

“I was more comfortable sitting down. I don’t think --”

“No, don’t think. Allow me to do that.”   Illya fiddled about with the tripod’s legs and once he was satisfied that they were at eyelevel, he gestured for Napoleon to stand behind the chair and return to his surveillance. Napoleon followed Illya’s direction, casting his friend a doubtful look, before bending slightly to view through the lens. He felt Illya close to his back, and suppressed a shiver as his lover’s voice whispered in his ear, “Trust me. Just keep your eyes on the building.”

Napoleon tried not to react as Illya’s arms circled his waist and his partner’s nimble fingers went unerringly to the buckle on his belt. The fastening was opened with the same smug flourish as when Illya cracked a safe. Forcing his attention on the unexciting building across the street, Napoleon resisted the urge to close his eyes and relish the sensation as Illya popped the button on his slacks and slowly eased down the zipper. But he couldn’t suppress a groan when his partner’s warm hand slipped under the elastic waistband of his shorts and sought out his cock. Napoleon was already hard. As soon as Illya had touched him, when those sensitive fingers had stroked a slow massage against his skin, his favourite organ - always ready for action - had started to respond.

Illya always had this effect on him, to one degree or another. When they had first been introduced, it had been an instant attraction on Napoleon’s part. Illya had taken a little longer, along with some gentle and patient coaxing, to come round to the idea.

As a couple, they weren’t unique by any means. Napoleon knew of at least one other same-sex partnership that had passed the boundaries of just-good-friends. Landis and Mackie had all the signs – and Napoleon was in a position to recognise them. They spent much of their free time together, then there were the brief touches that seemed inconsequential and yet conveyed a wealth of feeling. But most of all it was the eyes, the way their gaze held for just a moment too long or how one looked at the other when they thought they weren’t being observed.

Oh, yes. Napoleon knew the signs, all right.

In such a necessarily close relationship, when each depended so much on the other, it was inevitable that close bonds would be forged, and that sometimes those bonds became more intimate, more needy. That was one reason Waverly constantly changed the staff rota, to reduce the risk of attachment. The only reason he and Illya – and Landis and Mackie - had survived Waverly’s cleansing rituals was because they worked so efficiently and effectively as a team. And the old man knew not to mess with a winning formula.

Illya was now pressed against his back, warm and solid, one hand teasing Napoleon’s erection from its hiding place while the other hand brushed across his chest, finding and pinching the hard nub of a nipple through the cotton of his shirt. Kisses along the back of his neck were interspersed with biting nips to his shoulders and back, like a possessive Siberian tiger keeping its mate in place while they coupled.

Napoleon wriggled, pressing himself back into his partner, as he was stroked and fondled almost beyond endurance. The hand-job was nice, but the echoing erection he could feel rubbing against his ass was more inviting. A few more moments of this sweet torture, however, and he was going to come.

Thankfully, Illya had other plans. He released Napoleon, causing his partner to groan at the loss. Napoleon’s hand was coaxed free from the tight grip he had on the back of the chair and placed firmly around his own cock. Illya’s voice ordered, “Keep touching yourself while I make some preparations.”

Napoleon complied willingly – there was something about Illya being assertive and dominant that excited him, made his balls twitch with anticipation. Napoleon wondered at this recently discovered facet of his nature, this tingle he got whenever Illya became assertive during sex. Napoleon had to wonder if there were any other undiscovered kinks in his psyche. He looked forward to finding out.

He listened to Illya’s movements behind him, while he curved his fingers around the girth of his cock, pumping slowly, trying to temper down his arousal till his partner returned to him.

His eyes never once left the lens of the binoculars.

His skin quivered as Illya ran his hands up Napoleon’s back in a way that was both possessive and reassuring, letting his partner know he was there. Then he was pressing against Napoleon’s back, the heat of his lust radiating through the thin cotton of their shirts. The hands on his back were sliding down his ribcage, feeling around the waistband of his pants. Illya’s long fingers slid under the waistband, creating a wedge between his hands and the pants, forcing them to move downward with the motion of his hands.

Napoleon felt he should put up a token objection - after all, if their quarry should appear... well… nobody liked to get caught with their pants down. But at the moment, his target was nowhere in sight - and his needs overcame his doubts. He kept quiet, allowing his lover to make all the moves, telling himself he had no option, that Illya had effectively trapped him in this position, held him prisoner. A ridiculous notion, of course, but it was all part of his fantasy, his desire to be dominated and used by the man he loved.

His pants were now bunched up around his knees; at least he wouldn’t have to scrabble to get his legs into them, should the need arise. Illya’s hands were travelling back up his torso, gliding around his chest, lightly scratching at his nipples, while Napoleon continued to pump at his erection. He loved it when Illya did this, seemingly intent on touching and caressing every inch of his body, almost in worship. And he knew just where to touch. Illya’s expressive hands continued to move lower, circling around Napoleon’s stomach, gradually moving towards his hips, until finally coming to rest on the perfectly muscled buttocks. Napoleon’s breath caught as he felt his cheeks being parted and a warm, slick finger probed between the space, finding the opening to his body.

It was an effort to keep his attention focused on the street. He wanted to close his eyes and revel in the feel of his lover finger-fucking him, he wanted to bend over and present himself for Illya’s pleasure. _Do what you will, touch me, lick me, fuck me, just don’t stop!_

The oiled fingers were removed and Napoleon heard a _zhhippp_ sound as Illya’s fly was undone.   Illya’s hands were back on Napoleon’s hips, guiding him back a little, bending him at the waist, pushing Napoleon’s head forward into the lens of the binoculars. And then the ultimate sensation as he felt Illya’s cock probing, finding and breaching the tight ring of muscle. Napoleon hissed at the brief sting of pain when the glans passed through the tight opening, but the discomfort was transient as the feeling of being filled and possessed took his breath away. It felt like an eternity, but at last his lover was fully sheathed inside him. Illya was snug up against him, two parts of the perfect whole once more joined. Illya’s voice whispered, “Okay?”

“Fine. Don’t stop,” Napoleon replied. Both men were economical with words during sex: talk was for later, in the warm after-glow of orgasm, when both were compos mentis once more, and free to explore their feelings without the prejudice of passion.

But while his eyes watched, alert for movement across the street, his mind was elsewhere, attuned to the physical as Illya made glorious love to him. It was a strange sensation. On one side of the lens, the outside world went on as usual, the noisy hustle and bustle of city life going about its everyday business, unaware. On this side of the lens, the peace and quiet was broken only by the heavy breathing of his partner and the gentle, rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

Napoleon felt Illya withdraw and push back home with maddening slowness, his cautious Russian partner always careful during initial penetration, mindful of the damage that can be inflicted with improper preparation and care. Napoleon found it frustrating at times. In this position, bent to his partner’s will, Napoleon wanted it hard and fast. He wanted to be taken, not cherished, he wanted to be abused, not loved. He wanted the sex to be raw and primal.

Once again, Napoleon wondered at the state of his mind. This was torture, being unable to take an active part. He was being used, a sex-toy for his partner’s pleasure - and it was one of the most erotic feelings Napoleon had ever experienced

But at last, satisfied that he had loosened his partner sufficiently, Illya was quickening his pace, his hands tightening on Napoleon’s hips to keep him in place, while he pistoned in and out. The friction of Illya’s cock moving against his prostrate was almost unbearable, rocking Napoleon like an electric shock each time it slid over the gland, taking Napoleon’s breath away each time. Napoleon jerked at his own cock, trying to keep pace with his partner. He was almost there; he could feel the physical evidence gathering in his abdomen. “Harder,” he managed to gasp, loath to end their lovemaking, but aware of the time constraints.

Illya complied, thrusting with brutal abandon into his willing mate. Napoleon could feel the sweat of Illya’s body soaking into the back of his shirt as his lover slammed into him, over and over. Illya growled once and sunk his teeth into Napoleon’s shoulder. Pain and pleasure mingled and Napoleon gave himself over to orgasm, his body stiffening as the first pulse of semen discharged from his aching cock and spilled onto the floor.

Illya came moments later, the intensity making his knees buckle and forcing his hold on Napoleon to become painful. Napoleon didn’t mind. It was a sweet pain, an ache that came from being loved. And loved he was. These shared moments with his partner were the most precious, times when they could be themselves and re-establish the strong bond between them.

Napoleon raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes and took several deep breaths to slow his heart rate. Illya was resting against his back, his semi-erect cock still trapped deep inside Napoleon, reluctant to relinquish its place. Napoleon smiled to himself, as Illya’s hands soothed and caressed over Napoleon’s belly and chest.

He loved this moment immediately following orgasm, a brief period of calm, where both men were acutely aware of each other, sharing the echoes of their gratification, while their bodies climbed down from the peak of pleasure.

Napoleon removed a hand from the chair to squeeze at his lover’s arm. Each second shared, each act of sex, brought them even closer. When he was with Illya, Napoleon felt he could conquer the world. The intensity of his feelings for his partner was frightening, at times. He’d never wanted to be this dependant on one person ever again, but now he was hooked, line and sinker. And he really didn’t mind one bit.

Napoleon felt his lover carefully withdraw and he hissed as the swollen head slipped past his sensitised sphincter. Illya pulled away, drawing his hands up and down Napoleon’s spine in a soothing massage.

And still, Napoleon’s eyes remained on the street as he purred with pleasure. What he wouldn’t give to be home in be right now, with Illya by his side, warm, snug, and tranquil in the afterglow of sex.

Illya stopped his brief massage and gave him a final slap on the rump. “Stay there. I’ll clean up.”

Napoleon heard the tap running for the few seconds it took to soak a cloth, and heard his partner moving around, cleaning himself up. He heard Illya approach and stayed still as a warm, damp cloth was wiped over the sticky mess he’d made across his groin and hand.

The cleansing finished, and Illya was touching his chin, coaxing him away from his watch. Napoleon leaned forward, meeting his partner half way for a post-sex kiss. This was something he’d missed during this session of love-making. Napoleon liked to kiss, he liked the taste of Illya, the initial penetration with the tongue, a prelude of things to come. He forgot his business for a second, closing his eyes to centre his attention on his lover. The contact lasted longer than he intended and he pulled away, just a short distance, reluctant to part. “I should get back to my surveillance,” he said regretfully.

“There’s no need,” Illya replied. He shoved the towel into Napoleon’s hand. “Marton has just exited the building.”

“What!” Napoleon peered through the lens and saw Marton standing on the steps of the building, taking in his surroundings without a care in the world. He smoothed down his moustache before setting light to a cigarette. Blowing a stream of smoke into the air, he moved slowly down the steps of the building and paused, as if deciding which way to turn.

Napoleon turned, tucking himself back into his pants as he did so.   “Illya, I…” But Illya had already left. Damn that Russian. For the second time in his career, distracted by a beautiful blond. Only this time, the blond had the foresight to keep one eye on business, while Napoleon was otherwise occupied.

He zipped up, picking his jacket up at the same time with his other hand. He was half way out the door with only one arm through a sleeve as he caught a glimpse of Illya’s back dashing out of the door.

Napoleon was following moments later, his mind already back on the assignment. But once this mission was over… he would have to see how he could repay his partner for brightening an up an otherwise dull assignment.

Oh, no. Life was never dull with Illya around.

He set off at a fast pace to catch up with his partner.

**The End**


End file.
